


What Belongs to Mr. Eames

by applecameron



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: BDSM, D/s, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Sex Toys, Spanking, Submissive Arthur, dominant eames, implied/referenced cutting, verbal correction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 16:35:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5547503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/applecameron/pseuds/applecameron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur doesn't think he deserves it, but when he breaks Eames' rules, he's always cravenly desperate to be forgiven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Belongs to Mr. Eames

Eames' hands are rough, thick fingers curled just right around Arthur's cock. Arthur's still dressed save for his shoes and socks, sitting on the edge of the bed, arms trembling as he leans back, his slacks undone and pushed down to his thighs. His skin is hot and he's writhing in shame and desire at Eames' touch. 

"Do you know who this cock belongs to, Arthur? Do you remember, now?" 

Arthur moans. "Eames -" 

Eames interrupts with, "Are you answering my question, right now, Arthur?" 

He tosses his head. Eames has brought him swiftly and efficiently to the edge of orgasm and kept him there for who knows how long before beginning chastisement. "Oh, god." 

"Well?" Eames stops, grips the base of his cock until Arthur's almost uncontrollable urge to come begins to subside. "Are you answering my question, or just begging for my mercy?" He leans in closer, so that Arthur's vision is all Eames, nothing but Eames. "Answer me, Arthur." 

He almost comes in spite of the death grip on his cock, at the direct order. "Begging-" 

Arthur hates being verbally disciplined. It makes him feel so humiliated he can't bear it, has to escape, tries to wiggle away, but there's no escape from Eames, no escape from his hands, his mouth, his control. 

Eames starts jacking him again and Arthur bucks under his hands. "Answer my question, Arthur." It makes him feel so low when Eames forces him like that. So degraded, when Eames makes him admit his wrongs out loud and say that he's sorry. He'd rather do anything than admit he disobeyed out loud. It's somehow more debasing than anything Eames has ever done to him physically. 

He can't stand it, but he can't not answer a direct question, can't not obey the order. It's agony made worse by his desire for release, by his body's needs so effortlessly summoned up by Eames' hand, by his fear of losing Eames' approval. 

He hiccups, hands numbing, fisted in the bedcovers, struggles to remember the exact question over his desperation to come. Eames throws him a lifeline and repeats his question: "Do you know who this cock belongs to, Arthur?" 

"It belongs to you, Eames." He hiccups, again, tearing up. He's shaking with the admission, from the inside out, from saying it out loud in some stupid hotel room, feeling as if the room was as full as a train station, as if he spoke in front of hundreds. Feeling so exposed, under Eames' glare. So naked. Nowhere to hide from the truth, that Eames has mastered him, totally, effortlessly, taken him over. That he's Eames' _boy_ , and so very, very ashamed. Ashamed of how much he craves it, craves Eames' direction and the release that comes with it. 

"What belongs to me, Arthur?" 

"This cock." 

"Say it, Arthur." 

"Arthur's cock belongs to Mr. Eames." He finishes the sentence with a loud cry as Eames grips his cock tightly again. "Please, Mr. Eames. Please-" 

"Whose orgasm belongs to me?" Relentless. 

"Arthur's orgasm." 

"Say it, Arthur. You know how. I shouldn't have to tell you." 

That sticks him like a knife between the ribs, because Eames shouldn't have to remind him in that angry, disappointed voice that Arthur so despairs of hearing, because yes, he knows how to say it. He doesn't _want_ to let Eames down, really he doesn't. And yet it still happens. He quakes for a while, as the ache coiling in his stomach gets heavier and heavier. 

"Arthur's orgasm belongs to Mr. Eames." He whispers suddenly, feeling so small in Eames' hands. So helpless. "Arthur's body belongs to Mr. Eames," he says even fainter, without prompting, little more than a whimper, but Eames still hears him. His vision blurs. He's trembling at the words and what they mean. He doesn't belong to himself. He doesn't have the right to touch himself, or let another touch him, without permission. He's Eames'. He couldn't feel it more in that moment if Eames had slapped a brand on him rather than handle his cock. He wants the earth to swallow him up. 

Eames' hand starts moving again. "Mine. That's right, Arthur. And are you sorry?" 

The thing in his stomach unfurls. _God, yes_. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Eames, I'm sorry I let him touch me -" He wants so badly to be good, to be loved, to be worth Eames' love. All he can think is _sorry_. 

Eames' other hand grips Arthur's chin, stilling his frantic nodding, "tell me what you did wrong, Arthur." 

"I let him buy me a drink at a bar, and I let him touch me." 

"No, Arthur." Eames' gaze is firm, his grip shifting to Arthur's neck. "Be specific." 

Arthur can't help crying at that instruction. It's too much. "No no, nooo." He's trying to rock in Eames' grip and can't stop. He was bad and he knows it. Admitting it in detail is a hundred times worse. He feels so low, so far beneath Eames, so unforgivable, so desperate for forgiveness. If he ever admits the entirety of his faults no one will ever love him. He's known that all his lonely life. Not even Eames would want him. He should be on the floor on his knees, kissing Eames' boots for caring about him at all. But he can't move. 

"Tell me the whole truth." Eames' grip tightens. Eames forces their gazes to stay locked; he can't get away, he can't even look away. He has to say it, say everything, he has to face Eames' anger and disappointment in him head-on. He feels like he's going to die if he does. But the compulsion to answer, to obey his command, is irresistible. 

"I let him grope me and I enjoyed it." He can barely get it out before he starts saying "I'm sorry," again on repeat. 

"Where did you let him grope you, Arthur?" 

His mouth moves for a moment before any sound other than a sob comes out. He can barely remember it in the face of Eames, of how totally Eames has taken him over, directed every thought, every movement, from the moment he walked in to his hotel room and found him waiting, angry. Finally he calms enough to form words: "I let him touch my arm, and my cock, and I let him kiss me. I came in his hand." It all comes out in a rush. He was bad, he was so bad. Shouldn't have let the man in the hotel bar flirt with him, knew he'd follow Arthur to the restroom, act on that spark between them. But he was loose with two drinks in him, and he was thinking selfishly instead of like Eames' property. Thinking of his own pleasure instead of Eames. 

"That's right. You let him touch my property." Something in Arthur's chest is about to burst, but Eames forestalls it: "Time to be silent, Arthur." 

He tries, but there's still noise and he's making it, he knows it's him, a litany of cries and "I'm sorry" that he can't halt. He was bad, he was so bad. He knows he was bad, Eames knows he was bad. He can't get away from it. He's so sorry. He doesn't deserve forgiveness, all he can do is beg for it. He wants to be good, really, he does. Really. His father always said Arthur was bad, no matter how hard he tried. And now he's let down Eames, and he just can't stand it, he can't stand it. He's writhing but it's not to get away, it's to die, or something, it's to get away from his own nature. 

Eames cups the back of Arthur's head, measures him with his gaze and strokes down, petting him. Squeezes the back of his neck to halt his flow. "It's time to be quiet. Do you need me to gag you to help you be quiet?" 

He nods and the thing in his chest starts pulling apart, setting him bawling, messy, worthless, undone by his need and the tiny sliver of Eames still caring about him, still willing to help him, maybe even forgive him for being bad even though he doesn't deserve it, he doesn't deserve Eames. Struggles to speak, and Eames is so good to him, lets the tears wrack him and gives him time to find his voice again so he can answer the question properly. So he can ask Eames to give him the help he needs to be a good boy for him. 

"Yes". He's supposed to speak clearly and directly. "Please gag me, Mr. Eames. I can't control myself." Even momentarily cried out, he feels sick at disappointing Eames. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I'm not good enough -" He hates himself so much he wants to crawl out of his skin and disappear. He's panting, head lolling in Eames' grip. 

"I know, Arthur." Eames rubs at Arthur's neck, soothingly, and then reaches into the bag leaning open on the bed. Pulls out a ball gag. Arthur opens his mouth obediently and does nothing, just shudders gratefully as Eames fastens it into position. "I know you can't control yourself. You need me to control you, don't you." He strokes the leather strap of the gag with his thumb, the other hand reaching to rub circles on Arthur's chest, inside his shirt. His hand is warm. "I know you can be good for me if you try, Arthur. You can be my obedient boy." 

It's not a question, but Arthur nods anyway, thinking _yes_ with his entire being, hoping it shows. The relief washing over him is overwhelming. Eames will help him. Eames _wants_ to forgive him. 

"But you have to admit it, don't you. You have to surrender everything, pet. Even your shame." 

_Please_. He wants to give it up. Give it all up, he just needs Eames to show him how. 

"My arm, Arthur, my cock, my mouth to kiss, my orgasm to bestow. Not yours. Your body belongs to me." He doesn't say it angrily, just as a statement of fact. 

Arthur nods again, helplessly agreeing. Yes, all of it. He wants to say it out loud but now he can't. Speech has been taken from him. His speech belongs to Eames, too. He groans, lifting himself up in offering, for any punishment Eames sees fit to mete out. For his absolution. 

"That's right, Arthur." Eames draws his hand down from neck, along chest, the bare flesh of his hip, and thigh. Arthur's cock is flagging after all that weeping. Eames fits a cock ring on him and pulls a vibrator and bottle of lube into view from the bag. "I know you can be this good for me, Arthur." He speaks as he looks down to open the bottle, filling a thick, blunted syringe with lube. "You're going to take your punishment, Arthur. You are going to show me how sorry you are, and how good you can be for me, and then you can be forgiven. Do you want that? Do you want to take your punishment and be forgiven?" 

Arthur nods, wanting nothing more. 

"Turn over." 

Eames positions him on his knees on the floor, bent so his chest and face are pressed into the coverlet, arms crossed behind his back. Arthur turns his cheek, taking a deep breath. Eames fills him with lube with almost clinical efficiency, using the syringe instead of his fingers, then drizzling lube over the vibrator. He inserts the vibrator slowly, Arthur jerking at the sensation. His cock isn't touching anything and he can feel every air current, and every twitch of his body. Every twitch of the body that belongs to Eames. 

Eames takes a seat somewhere out of Arthur's view, and turns the vibrator on with some kind of remote. 

Arthur screams into his gag but doesn't break position. He belongs to Eames. 

That's the only thought in his head, all that he clings to, crying, eyes shut, trying not to thrust, not lose control and grip himself, rip off the cock ring and shudder in orgasm. He belongs to Eames. He belongs to Eames. It's for Eames to decide if he's allowed to come. It's for Eames to decide everything. 

It's for Eames. It's all for Eames. It's like a mantra. He says it over and over, eyes shut, as he tries not to convulse in pleasure, not to run away and seduce strangers in hotel bars, not to do anything except be where he is, right here, right now, for Eames. 

Slowly, he doesn't know how long, a blanket of calm steals over him, and he gradually heaves a deep breath, arches his back, eyes opening to fix his gaze on the wall, and thrusts his ass up meekly for Eames to do as he will. Now he can be still, for Eames, mind and body reaching some kind of accord. Now he doesn't need the gag to keep quiet. 

He hears Eames say, "that's it, Arthur. Show me how good you are." 

He hears Eames moving. The first slap hits his right cheek and is followed by another on the left. Eames jostles the vibrator and Arthur whines. "That's right, Arthur. Take it like a good boy." 

He slaps again and again, and Arthur keeps his position, ass up and submitting, fully humbled, to his punishment. Eames stops briefly and undoes the ball gag, massaging along Arthur's jaw before returning to strike his ass. 

Eames scrapes at his skin with a nail and Arthur bucks and whines, then arches back into position. Not just submitting anymore. Asking for his punishment. Every molecule in his body is singing. "That's my good boy. I knew you could do this for me." 

He unleashes a torrent of blows and then tugs Arthur up so that he can peel his trousers all the way off. Pushes him back down against the bed. Arthur squeaks briefly at the vibrator's movement, pleasure so sharp it nearly hurts erupting across his consciousness before disappearing. Eames resumes spanking until Arthur cannot remember another position save being on his knees under Eames' hand. There is nothing else. He sighs and settles again, in some way he can't articulate, and that's when Eames pulls out the vibrator and replaces it with his cock. 

Arthur is pulled into Eames' lap, hot, pained flesh tormented by the fabric of his trousers, as he sits down on the bed with Arthur in his arms. He unbuttons Arthur's shirt and pushes it down to trap his arms, heaving Arthur up and fucking into him. Arthur yields utterly, head thrown back over Eames shoulder. His bones, his muscles, his skin, are all dissolving under Eames' hands, until Eames tightens and comes, groaning. 

"Thank you, Mr. Eames." Arthur whispers, Eames still inside him. He feels spread open, remade, on Eames' cock. He wants Eames to never leave. 

"I forgive you, Arthur." Eames unsnaps the cock ring. "Come for me." 

Arthur's orgasm hits like deliverance, blinding, deafening, the only thing he hears is Eames' voice calling him a good boy, over and over. 

When he comes back to the world, Eames is naked and holding him close. Arthur's shirt is off and the toy bag isn't on the bed anymore. "Back with me?" Eames strokes his ear, his hair, his cheek. Arthur nods, rubbing his cheek against Eames' fingers, overwhelmingly tired. It's a clean tired. A forgiven tired. Eames leaves him for a moment, returning with a warm, wet, towel. Arthur just watches his face as he concentrates on cleaning Arthur, moving him like Arthur's a doll in his hands, or a child. He feels limp all the way through to his spirit. Eames wipes himself down briefly, tosses the towel and wrestles them both under the bedcovers, then feeds him half a bottle of water, supporting him with his other hand. His gaze is warm and affectionate as he wraps Arthur up in his arms, cradling him. "That's my boy." His kiss is thorough and tender, and Arthur is sighing contentedly by the time he's done. 

Always knowing Arthur's needs, he says it again and again, letting Arthur be carried on it to sleep. "That's my good boy. My good boy." 

**Epilogue:**

Eames knows. He knows that Arthur can only feel happy for so long, before his self-hatred drives him to break Eames' rules, trying to anger him, drive him away, leave him to the misery he thinks he deserves. 

Arthur commits the same infraction every time he pulls a runner. Eames knows to go looking for the closest 4-star hotel, and wait for Arthur to come up to his room looking manhandled by some stranger, or with his coat hiding a suspicious wet patch on his trousers. Every time, Eames lets him run, and then reels him back in. Punishes him fiercely, so Arthur can stop punishing himself. Refuses to let him get swallowed up completely by his darkness. Instead, he lets Arthur redeem himself, forgives him after he's successfully proven how bad he is by breaking Eames' rules and getting caught. This way, Eames stops him from castigating himself to total destruction for his perceived faults, in favor of Eames' clearly defined, and far more loving, correction. 

Ever since the night Eames claimed Arthur's body as his property, he's not once taken a blade to his skin. He gets hurt on the job a lot less these days, too. Eames would happily consider the relationship a wild success on those grounds alone. 

It's not perfect. They're not perfect. But most of the time, under Eames' care, Arthur can let himself be happy. 


End file.
